al," I said coldly, "but I am interested to know
why you should select this particular moment rather than any other. What
happened in '89?"

George looked faintly conscious. "Nothing," he answered. "That's just
the point. It's what might have happened. I think you've never heard me
speak of a girl called Emeline? Anyhow, I was rather struck at that
time; we were staying in the same house that autumn, and I believe
everybody expected me to propose. Only, somehow I didn't. But it was the
closest shave I've ever had, and, as that was just twenty-five years
ago, I began counting from then."

"Did Miss--er Emeline share the general expectation?"

"To be candid, I rather fancy she did. Several of her set were quite
nasty about it afterwards, though it was obviously no business of
theirs. She married somebody else later on, and lives in Ireland."
George sighed reflectively.

As it was apparent that he would shortly become sentimental, a condition
for which he is unfitted, I took my leave. "You're not really going to
put that nonsense in the paper?" I asked.

"I am," said George, recovering abruptly. "If there is any way in which
a put-upon bachelor can get equal with the world, I mean to take it. I
regard it as a public duty. Look in again next week, and you'll see the
result."

Curiosity brought me on my next visit to George with more anticipation
than usual. The advertisement had duly appeared. But my inquiries found
him oddly reticent.

"Look here, George," I said at length, "what did that paragraph
produce?"

"I got stacks of letters, mostly humorous, that will require answering."

"No presents?"

"One," answered George reluctantly, "from Emeline."

This was intriguing. George's manner with regard to it was discouraging,
not to say morose. But I am not easily put off.

"What sort of present?" I persisted.

"Oh, handsome enough. A silver frame, quite good in its way, with a
family group of herself and her husband and three kids inside it. I
shall take that out."

"Any inscription?"

The moment I had said it I saw that I had found the trouble.

"Only three words," answered George evasively. He hesitated. "But there,
Emeline never did know how to express herself."

"George," I demanded sternly, "what were those three words?"

"_A Thank Offering_," said George.

* * * * *

GLEANINGS FROM GRUB STREET.

(_By our Special Parasite._)

A brilliant reception is being prepa